


In Times of Trouble

by out_there



Series: The Sad Divorced Bastards Club [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, POV Greg, mystrade, time spent in hospital waiting rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24571480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: "Unfortunately, helplessness does not seem to get any easier with practice." Mycroft sighs, breath gusting through Greg's hair. "If it did, it would be easier to watch you suffer and do nothing."Greg turns to look at him, but in the darkness he can only make out the darker shadow of Mycroft's haughty nose in profile. There's no hint of Mycroft's expression. "You're here. That's not nothing."
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: The Sad Divorced Bastards Club [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1243157
Comments: 75
Kudos: 389





	In Times of Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Celli for cheerleading. Thank you to misbegotten and smallhobbit for betaing.

Greg gets the call at 2.37pm on a Tuesday. It's a stupid thing to notice, but he's been a copper for over two decades and he's used to paying attention to times and dates. 

He answers his mobile with a friendly smile, happy for any excuse to avoid the dreaded staff annual reviews. "Hi, Jules," he says, and there's a shaky gasp at the other end of the line. Greg sits up straight in his chair. "Jules, talk to me."

"It's Dave," she says, voice unsteady. Jules has always been the one to keep in touch. The responsible one who has everyone's numbers and current addresses, the person you tell first because she'll let everyone know. "There was a--" She stops again, swallowing loudly.

"Breathe," Greg says, as calmly as he would to any panicking family member, to any friend of the victim. He's already reaching for a pen and a notebook. "It's okay. Just breathe."

She mimics his slow, careful breaths and then finally says, "Dave was in a car accident. I'm in University College Hospital now. He's unconscious and they don't know when he'll wake up-- if he'll wake up."

"Fuck," Greg says, rubbing his fingers into his closed eyelids. "His daughter? Have you told Cathy?" She's in Spain, he thinks. Or Portugal. Somewhere warm and married to a painter.

"She's flying in tonight," Jules says, sounding more settled when it comes to something concrete like travel arrangements. "I thought about calling his dad, but with the Alzheimer's..."

"There's no point," Greg agrees, turning off his computer and finding his keys. Where did he leave his keys? He finds them lurking in his second desk drawer. "Look, I'm leaving work now."

"Thanks. Peter's stuck in meetings all day and I just-- I need someone here."

Greg could say something about Jules' husband, about how there are more important things in life than being the marketing director for a High Street clothing brand, but criticising Peter isn't going to help anything right now. "I'm on my way," he promises. "Get a cup of tea, get five minutes of fresh air, and I'll be there as soon as I can."

***

When he gets to the hospital, Jules is waiting outside the front doors. Her hair is blonde, cut straight to her shoulders, and she's wearing a well-fitted blazer and jeans. From a distance, she cuts a stylish figure but up close, Greg can see mascara smudged under her eyes. He pulls her into a quick hug, and she squeezes back tightly.

For a moment, they don't say anything. They've done this before. Shown up at a hospital when Cathy was born, when Jules had her four kids, when Peter had a panic attack so bad he thought it was a heart attack and called an ambulance. When Anna collapsed for no reason, and suddenly a few bad headaches and some dizzy spells got diagnosed as a tumour.

Greg doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to think of the week Anna spent in a hospital bed, drifting in and out, never lucid for too long. He doesn't want to remember how Dave sat at her bedside, holding her hand even after the doctors said it was unlikely she'd wake up again. He doesn't want to remember Cathy at seventeen, so young to lose her mum.

Greg gives one last squeeze and pulls back. "What have the doctors said?"

"They're going to operate. They said I could leave and they'll call when he's out of surgery, but I'm not going anywhere."

"Three stooges, huh?"

Jules' smile is watery, but it's something. A nickname that goes back to their early twenties, when Greg was a young copper who wanted promotion badly enough to get a degree and Jules was the only one in his legal class who wasn't a twittering eighteen-year-old. When Greg and Dave were joined at the hip, going out to disreputable pubs to the early hours of the morning and singing along with bad cover bands. When Greg's one attempt at matchmaking resulted in both Jules and Dave laughing at him and bonding over Greg's romantic idiocy.

Maybe he doesn't see them as much as he once did, but even if they only catch up once a year, it's always been an anchor. A tie to who he used to be, reckless and idealistic, and a reminder that he's glad he's grown past some of that. He's wiser now, smarter about the risks he takes but some of his best mistakes were made with Jules or Dave beside him.

At the nurses' station, Greg flashes his ID and introduces himself as DI Lestrade. He doesn't say he's there on official business but he lets the staff assume and talk to him, one emergency personnel to another. Greg keeps his expression as polite as any press conference and gathers as much information as he can.

There isn't anything they can do, other than sit in plastic chairs and wait. But at least they're together, even if neither of them can manage to carry a conversation. Luckily, there are phones -- and Facebook and Candy Crush -- so they don't have to sit awkwardly in silence.

When his phone rings, it seems obnoxiously loud in the busy waiting room. "Hey," Greg says, standing up with it, "give me a minute."

He gestures at his phone and Jules nods, so Greg wanders down the corridor to find an empty spot to talk. Leaning against the beige painted walls, he says, "Hey," again and closes his eyes to better focus on Mycroft's voice.

"Good afternoon, Gregory," Mycroft says, professional and polite but it still eases the coil of tension in Greg's chest.

"It hasn't been a good one."

"What happened?"

"Some tosser ran a red light and smashed straight into Dave's car." It comes out angrier than Greg meant it. Greg has to take a breath; he knows that lashing out and assigning blame won't help the situation. It won't even make him feel better in the long run. "He's in surgery. I'm waiting in the hospital with Jules. UCLH, on Euston Road."

There's a pause. A quiet, considering pause that feels warmly familiar to Greg. He can picture the reserved expression that would be on Mycroft's face, the way his eyes narrow slightly as he thinks. "Has his daughter, Catherine, arranged for a flight to London? I assume she'll bring her children."

"Yeah. They should land in two hours."

"There will be a car waiting for her," Mycroft says. "I'll arrange a hotel and text you the details."

Sometimes, Mycroft micromanages and assumes too much. Right now, it's a relief to know the details will be handled. "I think she was going to take Jules' spare room."

"She might appreciate the option, even if she doesn't use it."

It's a good point. When emotions are running high, sometimes being someone else's houseguest just makes everything worse. And as much as Jules' loves kids, suddenly having an eight and a ten-year-old under her roof might be a bit of a shock. "Okay."

"And you, Gregory? How are you?"

Greg would like to crawl into a hole and hide from the world. Greg would like to go back to being twenty-five and invincible, laughing about getting his wrist stuck in a cast for six weeks. "I have no idea. But I'm not falling to pieces if that's what you're asking."

Greg knows the flash of sympathy he'd see in Mycroft's eyes. Maybe only for a split second, maybe not long enough for most people to notice it, but Greg's getting better and better at reading between Mycroft's clear and concise lines. None of it shows in Mycroft's calm tone. "I'll need to rearrange a few things, but I'll be there when I can."

"Thanks," Greg says gruffly, trusting Mycroft can read him just as well.

***

It's past seven by the time Mycroft gets to the hospital. Jules and Peter have taken Cathy and her kids out for dinner, and Greg offered to stand sentry until they returned. A friendly face in case Dave wakes up. No matter how carefully the doctors had advised against hoping for too much, Greg can't walk away if there's the slightest chance.

It's just Greg sitting by the bedside, flimsy paper curtains drawn shut against the other patients in the room. In the hospital bed, Dave has dark bruising across his cheek, a cut lip and grazes across his forehead. There's a drip going into his arm and a plaster cast on his other wrist; beneath the sheets, there are more bandages from the surgery. Lying on that white bed, skin sallow and bruised, Greg keeps thinking that Dave looks… old. They all are, now. As much as he might laugh and call Dave an old codger, as much as Dave might call him a crotchety old bastard, it's upsettingly sobering to see Dave lie there, fragile and one step from elderly.

There's a familiar click of dress shoes on linoleum floors, a steady, precise pattern that Greg recognises with relief. Mycroft doesn't pause or rush; he walks steadily to the correct bed and parts the curtains with the handle of his umbrella. "Apologies, I couldn't arrive sooner," Mycroft says quietly, smooth and unruffled.

Greg isn't a big fan of PDA. He isn't twenty. He doesn't need to shove his tongue down someone's throat to prove something to the rest of the world. Mycroft is even less fond of obvious public gestures, but he walks to Greg's side and wraps an arm low around Greg's back, pulling him in. It's too low to be friendly, too certain to be anything but lovers, and Greg doesn't care. He leans into Mycroft's embrace and lets his forehead drop to Mycroft's shoulder.

"Oh, my dear Gregory," Mycroft murmurs, too quietly to be overheard.

Greg drags in an unsteady breath. He lets himself hide from everything for a second breath, safe in the dark and the quiet and the well-loved smell of Mycroft's cologne. Then he makes himself stand up straight and lean away.

Mycroft's hand retreats immediately, drawing back to his side. "What can I do?"

"Honestly, there isn't anything that can be done." Greg buries his hands in his pocket, clenching his fists against the frustration of being useless.

"Have you eaten?"

Greg gives a shake of his head. He's not sure he could stomach anything right now. "You read his medical records?" he asks, knowing Mycroft doesn't understand privacy. No, that's not fair. Mycroft believes in his own privacy; he doesn't believe other people have a right to their privacy. Mycroft believes he should have that information since he'll use it to make a decision in everyone's best interest and people, left to their own devices, do not. 

They've had that argument before. It's something Greg opposes in principle because everyone should have the same rights to privacy and free choice and not having their personal information accessed by anyone with a curious streak. In reality... In reality, he's yet to catch Mycroft abusing his access to everyone else's secrets and Mycroft's choices are consistently level-headed. Greg doesn't think anyone should have that access, but if someone has to, he trusts Mycroft to make the best decisions possible.

And maybe it's hypocritical to take advantage of Mycroft's desire to know everything, maybe if Greg was a better man he wouldn't ask, but he does. "What did they say?"

"Nothing the doctors haven't already told you." Mycroft keeps his voice pitched low, one hand loose on his umbrella. "They expect him to regain consciousness in his own time. Surgical intervention at this point is not worth the associated risks. He should recover, given time."

Greg feels his shoulders drop. He didn't think they were lying to him, not really, but it's still good to hear Mycroft's succinct summary.

There's a restrained chime from Mycroft's phone. Mycroft fishes it from his jacket pocket with a distasteful sneer, an expression he rarely allows anyone else to see. "Holmes," he says coolly. "Go ahead."

Greg watches, mesmerised. There's a familiar distant expression, the look of Mycroft ignoring the world and running through scenarios in his mind. The way his brows rise in response to whatever the caller says. The long-suffering glance at the ceiling before he says, "No."

Mycroft is a striking man. Not classically handsome, perhaps, features a little too soft and nose a little too sharp, but it's an expressive face. Clever and snide, sometimes amused or sharply surprised. Sometimes awed and tender when the world is only the two of them, a bed and a weekend curled around them.

"Stop," Mycroft says with absolute certainty. "I will fix it in the morning. Do not call again."

Mycroft ends the call, apparently unconcerned as he slides his phone out of sight, but Greg still has to offer. "If you need to go, I understand."

"What I need," Mycroft says easily, "is Oxford graduates with the slightest modicum of common sense. And what you need is a strong cup of tea."

"I--" Greg almost objects out of habit, then he thinks about it. "Yeah, actually, tea would be good."

***

There's something subtly wrong about Mycroft Holmes handing him a polystyrene cup of tea. The tea itself is fine -- as strong as Greg likes it, a little sweeter than he'd usually take -- and it's not like he expected a hospital canteen to serve tea in china cups and saucers, but Greg keeps staring at the white disposable cup in Mycroft's hand and wondering what he expected.

Something classier. Something expensive. Something refined and exquisite would suit Mycroft, not something cheap and hideous.

"Gregory," Mycroft says softly, nodding at the lukewarm tea in Greg's hand.

Grimacing down at it, Greg makes himself drink it. "We kept saying all summer that we'd get together. That we'd do something fun, and we just never got around to it, you know?"

Mycroft doesn't apologise and he doesn't make excuses. He simply states, "You are both adults with busy lives."

Greg rubs a hand across his gritty eyes. "I don't even know the last time I spoke to him face to face." It wasn't Christmas because last year Greg and Mycroft were in a Swiss chalet, far away from Greg's friends and Mycroft's family. They'd stretched it out from Christmas to New Year's, talked about hiking and skiing and then spent most of the time curled up in front of the oversized fireplace, playing with his phone while Mycroft read. The most active thing they did that week was celebrating Mycroft's birthday -- in front of that fireplace. Greg has excellent memories of Persian rugs beneath his knees, Mycroft's hands on his hips and the warmth of the fire on bare skin. Of slow kisses and steady hands, Mycroft's long fingers working him open until he was groaning and pleading, biting marks into Mycroft's shoulders and desperate for Mycroft to fuck him. He remembers the slide of Mycroft's sweaty skin against his back and those careful, sweet thrusts that had him cursing and gasping, pushing back to meet Mycroft's rhythm. He remembers lying there afterwards, exhausted and messy, laughing that this was so much better than Dublin.

Because Dave had wanted to go to Dublin. Dave had wanted to catch up and Greg had fobbed him off, had promised they'd do something later.

"Easter Monday." Mycroft holds a hand out for his cup, and Greg passes it over without a word. "You met him at Piccadilly Circus and went out for lunch."

"At least it was some time this year," Greg says, and his chest lurches uncomfortably. Dave is his oldest friend, who knew him at thirteen when he was all spots and elbows; at nineteen when his life was leather jackets and motorbikes. "You know, I've seen Anderson more often."

Mycroft gives him a careful look, opaque to the point of being unreadable. "I'm at something of a loss. What do you need me to say?"

He wants Mycroft to fix it. To do something impossible and make everything better. But Mycroft asked what he needs and… Greg sighs. "Just stay. I don't think there's anything you can say."

"Very well."

***

When visiting hours finish, Greg's tempted to camp overnight in the waiting rooms downstairs. Wouldn't be the first time he's spent the night sitting in a hospital, but he's not a uniformed officer waiting to arrest someone and he knows those plastic chairs aren't as comfortable as his mattress.

"They will call his daughter if there is any change," Mycroft murmurs quietly and it's enough to stop Greg mentally sizing up those waiting room chairs. He hadn't noticed he'd stopped walking. He moves again and Mycroft keeps pace. 

There's a tired silence as they get into Mycroft's car. It's not settled or comforting, none of the contentment Greg usually feels during a quiet car ride. Greg's exhausted and he feels brittle, as if one wrong word will shatter him.

He spends the drive back to his flat watching his knees, reminding himself to breathe in and breathe out, and trying not to let his thoughts wander. He doesn't want to think about today but the idea of tomorrow fills him with dread. So he breathes and picks at a piece of lint on his trousers, and doesn't dare say anything.

The car glides to a stop on Greg's street. It's an illegal park but Greg doesn't scurry to get out. "You don't have to," he says, watching his own clenched fists. "I mean--"

"What can I do?" It's such a simple, heartfelt question that Greg looks over at him. It's still Mycroft: suit expensive and precise, tie pinned into neat submission, expression calm and distant if you don't look too closely.

If Greg looks closely, it's all in Mycroft's eyes. Worry and regret, like watching Greg fall to pieces is breaking his heart. "I don't fucking know," Greg says, voice scraped raw with honesty. Right now, he thinks Mycroft would move heaven and earth if Greg promised it would help.

"The basics, then." Mycroft gives a nod, tightening his grip on his fancy umbrella. "Food, then rest. Anything else can wait until tomorrow."

Mycroft gets out, closing the car door with a firm click. It takes a breath for Greg to open his own door and climb out. He stands there as the car drives off, and then walks inside. After that, it's easy to follow Mycroft to the lift and let Mycroft press the button for his floor. To let Mycroft fish out keys and unlock Greg's front door.

"Have a shower while I heat something," Mycroft says, and it's easy to do that too. To strip and stand in the stall, waiting for the water to heat. He lathers up the soap like he's spent the day at a particularly grimy crime scene, washing by rote and mostly keeping his head out of the spray.

He dries himself and changes for bed, into an old t-shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms, and then sinks into the couch to eat. He barely notices the flavour or the texture -- pasta, some kind of creamy sauce -- he's suddenly so tired that he just wants it done. He wants the meal finished so he can go to bed and just stop being awake for a while.

Of course, sleep refuses to come. It doesn't matter if he's lying on his side or flat on his back. It doesn't matter that he feels wrung empty, bone-deep exhausted like he'd covered a double shift on New Year's Eve. He can't sleep. If it was just him in the bed, he'd turn on his phone and waste a few hours on pointless games and Facebook posts.

In the dark, Mycroft moves, turning away from Greg. Greg blinks up at the shadowed ceiling above him and tries to stay still. There isn't anything to do but wait for the morning.

"Come here," Mycroft says softly, and then there's a hand catching Greg's in the dark, pulling him closer. It's easy to shuffle behind Mycroft, to press his forehead to Mycroft's shoulder, to hold on tight. Greg feels clingy, needy, but sometimes Mycroft feels like the most solid thing in his life. There's a weight of history and establishment to Mycroft, like he could anchor the British Commonwealth and still hold Greg steady. Greg can feel his eyes burn uncomfortably and for one shaky breath, he worries that he might cry.

"Talk to me," Greg says, voice thick. He breathes in Mycroft's cologne. "Tell me something."

"Anything in particular?"

"Something I don't know. Just… distract me."

Mycroft lets out a soft hum. Lightly, his fingers trace over Greg's wrist and forearm, a whispery light sensation that leaves the skin sensitive and shivery. "I was a month shy of twenty the first time I kissed a boy. Well, young man, I suppose. We were at a bar full of uni students, very avant-garde. Students that would call themselves anarchists or feminists, communists or queers. Students who took great pride in being other than ordinary. You can imagine how seamlessly I would have fitted in."

Oh, Greg can imagine it. Mycroft so young: quiet, intense and reserved. Far too smart to be easily accepted, far too observant to be unaware of that fact. Mycroft baby-cheeked and softly pretty, and still a traditionalist in every way that counts. "Friends dragged you there?"

"They were insistent." Mycroft's fingers pause on Greg's arm, then continue their mindless stroking. "His name was Douglas Griffiths. He was extremely drunk but rather attractive--"

"How? Paint me a picture." Greg leans up, catches Mycroft's earlobe between his teeth. It's a reminder rather than an invitation for more, but it's still nice to hear Mycroft's breath catch. "Why did you find him attractive?"

"You could probably give an educated guess," Mycroft replies lightly, but he still indulges Greg. "He had broad shoulders, strong hands. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Striking jawline." Rolling on to his back, Mycroft slides a hand into Greg's hair, pulling him into a soft, smouldering kiss. "I have always been attracted to the unfairly handsome."

Grinning at the compliment, Greg presses a light kiss to Mycroft's lower lip and then rests his cheek against Mycroft's shoulder. "So what happened with Douglas?" he asks, as Mycroft's arm settles into a loose hold around his back.

"As I was saying, he was very drunk but attractive, so I accepted his suggestion of stepping outside for a smoke. I remember standing in that alley, cigarette nearly burnt out, and worrying that I'd have to go back inside soon and nothing would have happened. I took one last drag and then stubbed it out, humiliated that I'd read the situation wrong, and then he dropped his cigarette, stepped in close, and kissed me."

"Good kisser?"

"I thought so, at the time. It was exhilarating. I have no idea how long we stood there, kissing and nervously working hands under each other's shirts. Eventually, his friends came to find him because they were leaving and nothing really came of it. I was too nervous to offer my number and he never asked for it, or gave me his, so… nothing really happened."

"Just some really good kisses?" Greg's a little charmed by the story, although something doesn't seem right. He knows those sorts of uni bars. It's the same students every week. "Surely you ran into him again?"

"Not for several weeks, and by that point, he was seeing someone. I saw him across the room, but it seemed strange to start a conversation."

"Good call," Greg says around a yawn. He stretches a little, gets comfortable with his head on Mycroft's shoulder. "Am I too heavy? Should I move?"

Mycroft gives him a quick squeeze of a hug. "Get some sleep," he says, dropping a kiss onto Greg's hair.

***

It's still dark when Greg wakes up. In sleep, they've shifted away from each other, contact reduced to shoulders touching, Mycroft's foot resting against his ankle, and one hand curled loosely around Greg's elbow. He wonders what time it is. He doesn't want to move and wake Mycroft.

Mycroft lies quietly, breathing in a slow, steady rhythm. No sound of the small snores Mycroft usually makes. "You're awake, aren't you?" Greg whispers in the dark.

Mycroft doesn't even move. "You've been a restless sleeper tonight."

"Sorry," Greg mutters, rolling away for a good stretch. He feels human again. It's a vast improvement on last night. "What's the time?"

"Not quite four," Mycroft says without looking at anything. Greg believes him. "You should sleep for a few more hours."

"D'you think that's likely?" Greg rubs a hand across his eyes, wincing at the sharpness of his tone. "Sorry, didn't mean that."

Mycroft leans over to switch on the lamp. The buttons on his pyjamas are slightly askew and his hair is mussed and fluffing out on one side. "Don't apologise." 

It's instinct to say sorry again, but Greg bites the words down. Mycroft raises an amused eyebrow at him and Greg feels himself grin. "Fine, I'm not sorry. I take back every apology I've ever offered you."

"Even for missing our first anniversary?" Greg knows that amused twinkle in Mycroft's eyes, that quick shimmer of a smirk. "Or waiting a week after we first slept together to call me?"

It feels good to smile at something, even if it's something as ridiculous as Mycroft pretending to hold a grudge. "Apology revoked. Too late now."

Mycroft's smile softens, and his long fingers tangle in Greg's. "You are remarkably easy to love, Gregory."

It punches the breath out of Greg's chest. It's not the sort of thing Mycroft says. It's there but always in little gestures: Greg's coffee made just right, the car waiting to drive Greg home when he's too exhausted to drive safely, the spare umbrella and wellies in Greg's size. It's in the attention Mycroft pays to Greg's workload, and the patience when he listens to Greg rant about the Met's latest round of efficiency measures. He knows Mycroft cares, but it's not something he hears too often.

"Love you, too," Greg manages to reply, after swallowing his own surprise. "You know that, right?"

The curve of Mycroft's eyebrow is delightfully smug. "I know everything."

Greg pulls their entwined hands up to press a kiss to Mycroft's knuckles. "Liar."

"Everything worth knowing," Mycroft amends, eyes sharp and glittering in the soft lamplight.

***

The next morning is grey and ordinary. It's flicking on the kettle and putting away last night's dry dishes while Mycroft showers. It's taking over the bathroom while Mycroft picks out today's suit, shirt, tie and pocket square. (Not a handkerchief, as Mycroft has smugly informed him. Entirely the wrong size and a very different purpose, apparently. But Greg knows Mycroft also carries a handkerchief on him, along with his pen and notebook and his phone in the other pocket.)

It feels like an ordinary morning: shampoo and conditioner, and cursing when he squeezes the toothpaste from the middle. It's one of those petty little things he knows Mycroft hates, so Greg spends a few extra moments squishing it down from the end of the tube.

When Greg gets out, one of his suits is hanging at the end of Greg's side of the wardrobe. Technically, it's Greg's flat so the entire thing should be his wardrobe, but Mycroft has four very pricey suits hanging on the right-hand side, with some ridiculously expensive shirts. Greg had opened the wardrobe one morning to find carefully spaced hangers and a pile of his old football shirts folded neatly in the shelf above. Mycroft had only raised an eyebrow at Greg's surprised splutter and said, "You haven't worn them in nine months." So now he has half a wardrobe for his work suits, and at Mycroft's house, he has a looming oak behemoth of a wardrobe that seems empty with only his sweaters, jeans and collection of faded band shirts.

And a boyfriend with the urge to choose his clothes for him. If he's going to court or on a case that will need a press release, Greg's happy to follow Mycroft's silent choices. Other days, Greg will choose any other suit just to be contrary. (Not that Mycroft minds, either way. The first time Greg stepped out in a different suit Mycroft had frowned, and said, "I'll try not to overstep in future," as he watched his coffee cup. He spent the morning more formal than usual, back terribly straight and smartphone in hand until Greg had wrapped a hand around Mycroft's perfectly pressed cuff and said, "It's fine, the clothes thing. Don't worry about it. If I feel like wearing something else, I can pull it out myself." Since then, Greg's occasional bout of contrariness has only caused a raised eyebrow and the occasional wry smirk.)

He knows Mycroft won't care either way. He also knows Mycroft usually has a more exacting eye when it comes to picking the right shirt for the right suit. But Greg's stuck staring at hangers, hand paused in midair. It's ridiculous. He's got a towel around his waist and he can smell toast from the kitchen, but he's stuck. Choosing clothes isn't important right now. It's not as if the right suit will make Dave recover any faster. Greg isn't even going into the Yard today.

Greg's startled out of it by Mycroft's steady footsteps in the doorway. He turns to find Mycroft standing there with a fine china teacup in his hands. "Not like anyone will care what I'm wearing," Greg says, shrugging.

"As long as you wear clothes of some description," Mycroft agrees. He takes a measured sip of tea. "Your toast will get cold."

Greg rolls his eyes and reaches into the wardrobe, pulling out an old grey suit and pale blue shirt. At Mycroft's judgmental look, he gets a white shirt instead. "Not like anyone will care," he repeats mulishly.

"That's hardly an excuse," Mycroft mutters, taking his cup of tea back to the kitchen.

***

Somehow, the day is endlessly slow and over too soon. It feels like Greg's spent an eternity hovering beside Dave's bed watching nurses come in and check on him, watching doctors read over the charts and make unenthusiastic grumbles. There's no change, no need to fear, nothing the doctors are prepared to do yet. They just have to sit and watch the machines record Dave's blood pressure and pulse, and hope.

He's spent too long staring at the time on his phone, but it still comes as a surprise when it vibrates in his hand. Mycroft's name flashes up on the screen as Greg answers.

"Visiting hours are nearly over," Mycroft says, skipping the pleasantries entirely. If Mycroft's too busy for a hello, Greg probably won't see him tonight. "Should I send a car for you?"

"Yeah," Greg says because everything else he wants to say isn't fair and isn't kind. On a good day, he's proud of what Mycroft does and how hard he works. On a bad day, he understands that someone has to do it and Mycroft is usually the only one who can. Today, he just wants to crawl home and hide in someone's arms and listen to Mycroft promise him it's all going to be okay. "Have you got a minute?"

"I can spare five."

"If money was no object," Greg says as if money has ever been a consideration for Mycroft the way it is for most people, "any hospital in London, where would you transfer Dave?"

If he can hear the anger in his question, he knows Mycroft can. But it stings because he's seen Mycroft do this, he's seen Mycroft stride down hospital corridors for Sherlock and have him whisked away to private rehab places in the countryside. Not that Sherlock ever stayed in them, but he knows Mycroft could do it if he wanted to. And here's Dave, in a small shared room funded by the NHS, and doctors telling them to wait and be hopeful.

"I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Given his current state, physically moving him would be unnecessarily dangerous," Mycroft says, voice cool and calm. "UCLH has one of the best neurosurgery teams in the country. In the unlikely event that they need to operate, David will be in good hands."

Greg sits down fast and heavy, a surprised huff punched out of his chest. Here he is, assuming the worst of Mycroft, and he's got no reason for it. He's just picking a fight. "Fuck."

"Gregory?" There's a reedy note of alarm in Mycroft's voice, and it only makes Greg feel worse. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked--"

"Of course you should have. How else would you know?"

"I could have a little faith," Greg mutters, sad and angry and so damn tired. His chest is tied up in knots. "I just want to fix it, Mycroft. I want to do something, anything, and I can't."

"There is nothing more frustrating than feeling helpless," Mycroft says gently and then pauses. "I have to go now, but I'll be home by midnight. No matter what."

***

He's not hungry, but adults don't skip meals for no good reason. So Greg gets fish and chips out of the freezer, then throws them in the oven. He means to set the timer on his phone, but he forgets. He's distracted in the bathroom, trying to find the nail-clippers that should be in the second drawer, when he smells something burning.

Greg grabs a tea towel and pulls the hot tray out of the oven, swearing and dropping it into the sink as the heat burns his palm. The chips are black and smoking, but he ends up peeling the burnt crumbed coating off the fish and just eating the flesh. It's a bit dry and he eats it with his fingers standing over the sink like he was nineteen and still in his first flatshare. The whole thing is so pathetic Greg has to hang his head and laugh at it.

He can do better than this. By this age, after everything he's seen, he knows he can do better than this.

So he starts by clearing up the mess: binning the chips and washing the oven trays, putting away this morning's dishes and wiping down the sink. He wipes down the counters and then the cupboard doors (and wonders how he spilled coffee down one without noticing -- how tired was he?) and gives the floor a quick brush. Then it's a toss-up between cleaning out the fridge or cleaning the oven, but he can't find the oven spray, so fridge it is.

He pulls everything out and cleans the shelves with warm, soapy water. He checks the expiration date on everything as he puts it back in, and bins the tzatziki dip from two months ago and a half-used salsa that's started growing mould.

At the end of it, he's tired and his hands are pruned, and his life is still a mess, but at least he has a clean kitchen. He's not tired enough to sleep, but he changes and tries lying in bed for a while. He lies in the dark, listening to the traffic outside. The low rumble of a lorry. A sudden squawk of laughter from the street below. The roaring rev of a motorcycle speeding past.

Greg gives up and retreats to the sofa with a duvet. He flicks the channels until he finds some overly styled American police show -- the type where every female detective walks around in stiletto heels with her hair loose and blow-dried. The kind of show where he can tune out the banter and sexual tension and amuse himself imagining these glamorous detectives having to deal with Sherlock.

He drowses a little, because the sound of the front door opening makes him open his eyes. Mycroft locks the door behind him and then gives Greg a nod.

"Good evening, Gregory," he says, placing his umbrella in the stand beside Greg's door.

"Isn't it morning after midnight?"

Mycroft peels off his coat and hangs it on the hook. "It's 11:52. Still evening." True to his personal routine, the next thing to be removed is his scarf, hung over the coat, and then his gloves, tucked into the left coat pocket. There's comfort in that routine, in knowing that Mycroft will glance at the door to make sure it's locked before he walks over to the sofa.

Greg sits up, gathering the duvet into a smaller bundle to carry back to bed. "How was your night?"

"Satisfactory," Mycroft says, raising an eyebrow in the direction of the kitchen. "You could have ordered in."

"Well, now the kitchen's clean. Needed to be done anyway." Greg shrugs it off and stands up. "Come on, let's go to bed."

***

Greg dreams of the unending whine of a heart monitor flatlining. He dreams of car accidents, metal screeching as it's twisted out of shape and glass shattering over him. He feels the bone-jarring thud of impact and then he's outside the car, running towards it and trying to see the figure in the driver's seat. The face changes from Dave to Mycroft and back again, and Greg wakes up panting.

His skin is clammy and his heart is pounding in his chest. He rubs a hand across his eyes, slowing his breathing. Focuses on a calm breath in and then holds it for a count of four, letting the air out slowly. He repeats that, feeling the way his chest expands and empties, feeling himself settle into the mattress and start to unwind.

Beside him, Mycroft is still and silent, too silent to be asleep. "Did I wake you?" Greg whispers in the dark. The only answer is a derisive snort. "Sorry."

"There's no need to apologise for something beyond your direct control."

Greg scrubs a hand across his eyes. "Sometimes, people are just sorry that it happened," he says slowly, the way he'd explain it to Sherlock. Whenever he does explain it to Sherlock, Sherlock stares at him as if the information is useless, as if it's being forgotten before Greg stops speaking. "A sign of regret. You know, sympathy."

"I hardly thought you were pleased to wake us both." There's a shift as Mycroft sits up, arranging pillows between his back and the cold plaster wall. "But I also don't hold you responsible for your subconscious, and an apology is unnecessary."

Greg waits for Mycroft to reach for his phone and start working. That's usually how Mycroft spends any spare hour on a weeknight. He'll mutter about bureaucracy and claim he's merely keeping up with an unending sea of emails, but he's always scrupulously careful to make sure Greg can't accidentally read the screen. (Or not so accidentally. Greg can admit there are some nights he peeks over Mycroft's shoulder on purpose, partly to see what he's reading and partly to watch Mycroft twist his phone out of sight, all while refusing to admit it's full of state secrets.)

Mycroft only folds his hands on his lap. "If there was anything that could be done, Gregory, I would have taken action."

"I know. Really, I know that." Greg shuffles up the bed until he can lean his shoulder into Mycroft's. Mycroft is warm and solid and human beside him. "I was just having a bad day. Lashing out, and you were the nearest target."

Mycroft tilts his head down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Greg's head. "I am familiar with the frustration of being unable to help."

Of course he is. Greg's seen Mycroft stalk down hospital corridors and sit by Sherlock's bedside for hours. He's seen Sherlock's casual disregard only days later. "How did you do it? All those nights with Sherlock, how did you sit there and not go mad?"

Mycroft takes a breath, a pause while he considers his words. When he speaks, his tone is calm and logical. "Sherlock didn't care if I was there or not, but I needed to know he was still breathing. I needed to be sure, to see it for myself. The only thing worse than being unable to act is being uncertain of the facts. It was the lesser of two evils."

"Doesn't make it easy."

"Unfortunately, helplessness does not seem to get any easier with practice." Mycroft sighs, breath gusting through Greg's hair. "If it did, it would be easier to watch you suffer and do nothing."

Greg turns to look at him, but in the darkness he can only make out the darker shadow of Mycroft's haughty nose in profile. There's no hint of Mycroft's expression. "You're here. That's not nothing."

Mycroft huffs.

"I mean it. It's awful--" Seeing Dave on that hospital bed, the endless waiting and the empty reassurance of a likely recovery if he wakes up. Even in the dark, Greg has to grab Mycroft's hand and hold on. "It's absolutely awful, but it'd be worse without you."

Mycroft is silent but he squeezes Greg's fingers in response. At first, it's nice just to sit beside Mycroft. To thaw against the warmth of another body, to feel Mycroft's soft fingers brush over the back of his hand. And then Greg's thoughts start to circle the hospital again. He turns and kisses Mycroft, soft at first, and then lingering, trying to start something. It's a bad idea. He's tired and desperate for a distraction, and it doesn't take a genius to know it'll end badly.

He's not surprised when Mycroft cups his cheeks and eases him back. "Are you sure this will help?" Mycroft asks gently, thumbs smoothing over Greg's cheekbones. There's something steady and comforting in the gesture, but there's nothing sexual to it.

"Probably not," Greg admits, closing his eyes. "I just wanted to think about something else for five minutes straight."

He doesn't expect the soft press of lips to his closed eyelids or the very gentle way Mycroft repeats the gesture, kissing Greg's forehead. "Lie down," Mycroft instructs and Greg settles on his side, facing Mycroft. There's something comforting in the easy way Mycroft lies beside him, back pressed to Greg's chest. Greg curls an arm around him, elbow resting just below Mycroft's ribs and hand curled loosely on Mycroft's sternum. It's as familiar as his side of the bed or the weight of his phone in his pocket.

Familiar as the sight of a black car pulling up to collect him or the peaceful quiet of waking up at Mycroft's house on a Saturday. Sighing, Greg says, "We need to talk about this weekend."

"We'll stay in London." Apparently, it's already been decided. Greg's more relieved than he wants to admit. "You shouldn't be too far from the hospital until the situation is resolved."

Greg can't remember the last time they spent a free weekend in London. Usually, one of them's working or Mycroft's out of the country (or indisposed, as he might say). Occasionally, there's some social event on, like the inter-department footy game two months ago. But most weekends, there's that three-hour drive on Friday night and the uninterrupted country quiet all weekend long. "You already told your driver?"

"Would you prefer I waited until the last minute?" Mycroft asks, well aware that Greg doesn't like inconveniencing the drivers, no matter how well compensated Mycroft claims they are.

"No, of course not. I just… hadn't thought of it." That's not it, not really. The real answer is that Greg keeps expecting things to be harder than they are. Harder than Mycroft's ever made them. He braces for arguments that never happen, and then he's left surprised when Mycroft makes practical arrangements without complaint. He wants to apologise for it, or thank Mycroft for being a reasonable human being, and both reactions feel slightly off. "I don't get it, you know."

"What?" There's a grumble in Mycroft's tone, the faintest suggestion that he'd started to fall asleep.

"You. I don't get--" Greg huffs, unable to find the words. To explain how easy Mycroft makes these things. How hard it is to imagine Mycroft any different than how he is now: self-sufficient and diligently caring. "How did you end up divorced? How did that even happen?"

Greg feels Mycroft's surprise. It's in the tension across his back, the way his shoulders pull back straight, the sharp breath that moves his chest. "That's a rather strange question," Mycroft says smoothly, like the dark, calm surface of a still lake. "What brought it on?"

"I don't get it. You can make life, my life, easy and comfortable and--" That's not what he meant to say. That makes it sound like Mycroft is only there for Greg's convenience, and it's not that at all. "When things go wrong, when plans are ruined, it's never a problem with you. It's taken care of. Why would anyone walk away from that?"

"Some people require more…" The word hangs in the air, and Greg can only imagine how many words must have flitted through that sharp mind of Mycroft's before he settles on, "Passion. More spontaneity."

"But--"

"Gregory, not everyone values reliability. In a car, perhaps, but not in a lover."

"Steadfast," Greg corrects. "Devoted."

Mycroft allows a small pleased hum to escape. He presses back into Greg until Greg tightens his arm in a hug. "Whatever I told you of my marriage would be biased. You would be bound to sympathise with me and it would be inherently unfair to him. The simple truth is that we were rather different people and incapable of being what the other needed. I could have tried harder, but I could have chosen better. It is possible to learn from one's mistakes."

Greg doesn't have the heart to tease Mycroft over the incredibly posh phrasing. "And I was the better choice, was I?"

"You are one of the best choices I've ever made," Mycroft says immediately.

***

Mycroft's phone goes straight to voicemail. Greg nearly hangs up, tempted to send a text message instead, but when the tone beeps, he's already talking. "Dave woke up. He woke up, Mycroft. It was only for five minutes but it's a good sign. Everyone says it's a good sign and, fuck, just call me back, okay? When you have time. It's not urgent. I just wanted you to know we finally had some good news--" and then there's an automatic beep as the message stops recording. It's probably the worst recording Greg's left Mycroft, discounting one very drunk night when Greg left seven messages joyously explaining the Arsenal win and how he wanted to celebrate when he got home. (Mycroft had rightfully mocked him the next day and played each message on speaker. By the fifth message, Greg was talking less about football and more about getting Mycroft naked. The sixth message had been a detailed rambling about peeling Mycroft out his waistcoat and shirt and the seventh, well… Greg needs to be falling down drunk to talk about sex in that much lewd detail. It takes a lot to make him blush but he'd been mortified hearing that. Mycroft had been flushed, albeit for entirely different reasons. He's pretty sure Mycroft's got that message saved somewhere.)

Thinking better of it, Greg decides to type up a quick message too: "Just called to let you know Dave woke up." He ends it with a smiling emoji and a red heart, and hits send.

He's not surprised that he doesn't get a reply from Mycroft. If Mycroft had access to check his phone, he would have answered the call. Still, it was good news -- great news, honestly; Greg still feels like laughing in sheer joy -- and he wanted Mycroft to know. He needed Mycroft to know.

On the way back up the corridor, Greg stops at a vending machine and buys a handful of Snickers and KitKats to celebrate. When he steps back into the room, Jules has her arm around Cathy, who's crying and smiling and still clutching her dad's fingers. Greg heads over to the boys playing on their phones, giving them first choice of chocolate bars.

***

It's mid-afternoon by the time Mycroft calls him back. Greg smiles as he answers, and he only grins wider when Mycroft says, "Good afternoon, Gregory," in that endearingly formal way of his. In a way that suggests he has time to talk.

"Hey," Greg says, nodding at Jules as he takes the call out of the room. Cathy's taken the boys out for some fresh air. "Dave's been sleeping, but he woke up a second time. Only for a few minutes, but it's a good sign."

"I am immensely glad to hear it."

Maybe anyone else would assume that cool tone proved a lack of feeling, but Greg knows better. "So that's my good news. How's your day going?"

"Moderately successful. Waiting on a few loose ends to tie themselves."

"Any idea when you'll be clocking off?"

"I'll see you there at eight," Mycroft says, which probably means he'll spend the car ride ignoring Friday night traffic and working on his laptop. There's something comforting about the thought, the familiarity of it. The way it's so easy to imagine, like the way Mycroft smoothes his jacket before leaving the house or the way he always frowns at the rain before opening his umbrella.

"Thanks."

"For what?"

Greg knows that tone, knows the quick furrowed brow of Mycroft's confusion and how quickly it would disappear from his face. "For calling. For cancelling this weekend. For talking when I couldn't sleep. For being there."

"Of course." Not you're welcome or anything gracious. Not his Mycroft. "Did you expect otherwise?"

Greg runs a hand over his cheek. There's a spot of stubble at the edge of his jaw, a sign of shaving too quickly this morning. Rushing and unable to focus, and he only ate breakfast because Mycroft sat him down and forced a plate of toast into his hands. "Actually, no. Never occurred to me that you wouldn't be here if I needed you."

There's one of those rare pauses where Mycroft's caught by surprise. Greg stares at the white walls around him, the nurse pushing a tray further up the corridor, the buzz of activity behind the nurses' desk. This is what it comes down to, isn't it? Things go wrong, and life's all about the people who care enough to stay there when it happens.

"You ever thought about formalizing this?" Greg hears himself ask. "Us?"

"My solicitor has a Power of Attorney in your name. If something unforeseen were to happen to me, you would have legally enforceable rights." It goes without saying that Mycroft wouldn't let a small thing like legalities stop him from taking control if something happened to Greg. 

"What about marriage?" There's a sharp breath at the other end of the line, and Greg keeps talking before Mycroft can object. "I mean, you and me, we're good together. I like who I am around you. I like the time we spend together. Hell, I can't remember the last time we spent a weekend apart when you weren't stuck in another country. We're basically living together, and I want this. I want this to be permanent, Mycroft. I want this to be it."

There's a deep breath and then Mycroft asks calmly, "Are you sure?"

"I am. Been thinking about it for a while," Greg confesses. It's been sitting there in the back of his head for at least a year: what the future might look like when he retires, how much he wants Mycroft to be part of it. How he can't really picture the rest of his life without Mycroft and the whole 'death do us part' clause. "I shouldn't have brought this up on the phone, I know that. It's got to be the worst way to do this, but think about it, yeah?"

"I'm hardly bothered by the lack of perceived romance," Mycroft says snippily. "I'm surprised by the timeframe. I didn't think you'd want anything on public record until you'd retired."

"I've already got you down as my emergency contact. No one's brave enough to bring it up to my face, but the rumours are already there." Turns out if you act like it's a non-issue, everyone's too awkward to broach the subject. A few extra flyers for the Met's LGBT+ Network appeared on the pinboards around Serious Crimes, but that's it. Coming into the office with a wedding ring might prompt a few questions, but Greg could handle it. Might even have a little fun staring down whoever tries to ask impertinent, personal questions. "Wait. You'd already thought about this?"

"Obviously."

Greg blinks at the white wall opposite him. "So… that's a yes?"

"A yes in theory. You should take a few days to reconsider the timing."

"When has giving me time ever changed my mind?"

"You are not a teen pop star. This decision deserves more than five minutes of thought."

Greg can't help thinking of Mycroft after their first kiss, that very civil offer of a cooling down period to reconsider, and the way he hadn't believed a quick yes. He gets it: Mycroft is a man of careful consideration. He's already weighed the pros and cons long before he'll discuss a subject. But Greg trusts his instincts and he knows his heart, and everything tells him that this feels right. "I'll think about it, okay? But I don't think I'll change my mind."

"I'll see you at eight."

***

The next time Dave opens his eyes, he manages to stay awake long enough to talk. Long enough for Cathy to bend down for a one-armed hug and for each of his grandsons to take a turn. Dave looks exhausted, pale and chalky, but he still manages a grin when Jules says, "Dave, love, you haven't looked this bad since you finished that bottle of Talisker."

"What are you talking about?" Greg pushes in closer to give Dave's shoulder a careful squeeze. "At least this time he isn't projectile vomiting. He was worse than the Exorcist. And that was my car."

"You made me clean it," Dave rasps out, face creasing with the effort.

"Too bloody right, I did. That was my car and my whiskey. Least you deserved was to clean up your own mess."

Jules snorts, but Greg can see the shine in her eyes, the way she blinks a little too quickly. "And what did we learn from that night?"

"If you're getting that drunk," they call out together like they're still twenty-five and going out on the tiles, "walk home!"

They're loud enough that one of the nurses pops her head in, and then steps forward to take observations for the chart. They step back to give her room, forming a crowded knot at the doorway. Greg walks into the corridor and Jules follows him.

"He's going to be okay," she says, pushing hair behind her ear. Her hair is flat and a little frizzy, but Greg's looked better too. "For a while there, I thought--"

"Me too," Greg says, keeping his voice pitched low. He knows those fears all too well. "I'm looking forward to finally getting a good night's sleep."

"You're not the only one." Jules reaches out and clasps his hands in hers. Of course, that's when Greg hears the steady fall of dress shoes on linoleum.

Over Jules' shoulder, he sees Mycroft walking down the corridor and the quirk of his mouth when he notices their clasped hands. Greg waits until Mycroft looks up at his face, and then rolls his eyes pointedly. Mycroft's smirk softens with amusement.

"Good evening, Gregory. Jules," Mycroft says as if the nickname is physically painful to say aloud. He knows Mycroft would rather call her Juliette, much as he knows Jules would probably scalp him if he tried that a second time. Mycroft glances at the activity inside the room and adds, "I'm happy to wait here if you want to stay until the end of visiting hours."

Greg considers it, but Dave looks wrecked and he's already surrounded by family. "Let me tell Cathy I'm leaving."

Greg walks to the doorway and taps Cathy on the shoulder. "My ride's here. I'm going to head off."

"Okay," Cathy says. "I'll let Dad know."

"Tell him I'll see him tomorrow." When Greg turns back, Jules and Mycroft are standing side by side, both staring at their phones. It almost looks friendly. "Hey, Jules, that reminds me. Feel like being a witness to a wedding?"

Mycroft glances up for a second, eyebrow raised, and then turns back to his phone. 

Jules stares at him, eyes wide and unblinking. "Seriously?" Jules asks. "Like, tonight?"

"No, not tonight."

Jules lets out a surprised laugh. "You sure? Because if anyone was likely to run off to Vegas--"

"Not tonight," Greg repeats, annoyed and full of love for her. "I asked him tonight. I didn't say let's elope to Gretna Green."

"Even Gretna Green requires twenty-eight days notice," Mycroft says coolly.

If Jules wasn't standing right there, Greg would tease him back about bypassing that requirement. Surely Mycroft could speed that up if he wanted to. Instead, he says, "So what's twenty-nine days from now?"

"The sixth, which will not work." Mycroft's thumbs flick over his phone screen. Checking his calendar, Greg realises. "Assuming a Friday and a free weekend after it, the earliest date would be the nineteenth."

"So, nineteenth of next month," Greg says, grinning at Jules. "You free?"

***

"Cheers, boys," Greg says, raising his glass and yelling a little to be heard over the din of the busy pub. "To what will probably be my last attendance of the Sad Divorced Bastards Club."

Nicholls grins. "Planning on leaving the country?"

He looks around the table from Anderson, Stevens and Nicholls. He wanted to tell them face to face, and he can't put it off any longer. Greg takes a breath. "Actually, guys, I'm getting married."

"What?"

"When?"

"To who?"

Greg knows it's a sign of how much time he spends around the Holmes brothers that his first instinct is to say, "Whom," and then cringe at himself. "And next month. Just a small civil ceremony."

Because they talked it through, and Greg wouldn't want to get married without Jules there, which means Peter. And Dave, if he's recovered enough to make it. (Mycroft had looked uncomfortable and admitted, "I need to invite my parents. And Sherlock. So we should also invite John and Rosie. They'll do wonders distracting all three of them.") They'd agreed on no workmates, no second cousins twice removed, no big fuss and bother. Just a nice small ceremony in London and then a nice meal out.

Followed by a very nice weekend in the country, where Greg is going to make every effort to get Mycroft naked in every room of his house. Even the airing cupboard.

"Who's the mystery woman?" Stevens asks, proving he doesn't listen to gossip.

Greg eyes Anderson warily. There's a slow dawning horror on Anderson's face -- he might not work for the Met anymore, but he keeps up with the rumours. Greg waits until Anderson's beer is resting on the table. "Mycroft Holmes."

"By choice?" Anderson squeaks out.

Greg laughs. "Yes. Of my own free will, I'm joining the Holmes family."

There's a cry of congratulations from Nicholls, and Stevens gives him a warm slap on the shoulder. Anderson still looks like he's living in a horror movie.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Anderson leans in to whisper. "Holmes can't be all-powerful. I'm sure we could do something to help."

Greg's never asked Anderson why he's terrified of Mycroft. When he wants to, Mycroft can play a convincing Bond villain, all softly spoken threats and icy genius. Anderson's always been easily flustered, so it's not a leap to figure out he'd caught Mycroft at a bad time. But it's hilarious to try to reconcile that with his Mycroft, a man who insists on all forks in the drawer lying perfectly straight, who wears socks to bed and still has freezing feet, who will only indulge a weekend lie-in if he gets to be the little spoon. His Mycroft is patronising, micromanaging and sometimes unthinkingly privileged; he's also patient and considerate, funny and gentle. And in a few weeks, Greg's going to marry him.

"I appreciate the thought," Greg says, kindly as he can, "but I'm happy. Really." 

Greg ignores Anderson muttering about Stockholm Syndrome and stands up. He holds up his empty pint glass and grins. "I'm getting married! Next round's on me."


End file.
